Teaspoons Of Sherlock
by Anonymoustache
Summary: Sherlock drabbles! Little pieces of John and Sherlock's everyday life, with guest appearances from various other characters in the series. Johnlock, Mystrade, and maybe even a little bit of MorMor. Suggestions and prompts are loved. Leave a review :)
1. Blue Sink

"…Sherlock? Why is the bathroom sink dyed blue?"

Sherlock sighed and pulled at the ends of his hair, frustrated beyond belief. The directions on the package had made it sound so _easy_.

"Hey! Sherlock! C'mon, open up!"

Sherlock heard John pounding his fist on the door and grimaced. John definitely couldn't see him like this. Far too embarrassing.

"Sherlock, so help me, I will break this door down in three…two…."

Sherlock threw his jacket over his head and wrenched open the door. "What?" he snarled, turning just enough that John couldn't see the damage underneath his makeshift head covering.

John looked at him strangely. "Why do you have that on your…never mind, forget it." He broke off awkwardly, and then quickly continued. "What I actually want to know is why the sink in the loo's been dyed blue."

Sherlock coughed uncomfortably. "Experiment. Couldn't be avoided."

John faked a laugh. "An experiment. Oh, I see." He then glared straight at him. "Sherlock. _Please _tell me it isn't permanent."

"It isn't permanent."

John let out a breath he had been holding. "Thank God."

"…Except that it is."

John's eyes flew wide open. "Sherlock!"

"What? You told me to tell you it wasn't permanent!"

John grumbled under his breath. "Why the _hell_ would you dye the sink blue?"

"I told you, John; it was an experiment that…didn't quite work out."

John stood stock still for a moment, processing things. Suddenly, his eyes went wide. "You…you tried to dye your hair, didn't you?"

"Do not laugh or I will put livers in your bed," he said in a menacing voice, and pulled the jacket off his head.

John stood, frozen with shock. He tried desperately to control himself, but in the end he couldn't help it. He darted towards the linen closet and stuck his head in, shoving his head into a thick blanket to muffle his loud peals of laughter.

Finally, having worked through his delight at the situation, he emerged to see Sherlock glaring daggers at him. "Having fun, are we?" Sherlock asked acidly.

"Very." John said, still gasping for breath. "Is it _really_ permanent?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock said, frustrated. "It was for an experiment! It looked…_easier_ than it was." He stuck out his lip in a frustrated pout.

"Well, just calm down and get me the box, and we'll see what we can do, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, thoroughly cowed, and headed to the bathroom. John followed, observing his hair better in the light from the hallway. It was supposed to be blue, but Sherlock obviously had no previous experience with dye. It looked like he hadn't bleached it beforehand, so when he had dyed it over his brown locks it had turned them a murky swamp green.

"You should be glad I found you before Lestrade." John muttered as Sherlock rooted through the garbage. "He would have taken pictures and used them for the next Yard calendar."

Sherlock ignored him, throwing an old razor and several thin slivers of soap across the room.

Finally, the detective stood up again, brandishing a thin black box with a picture of a grinning blue-haired man on the front, showing gleaming white teeth. "This is it," he said, handing it to John.

"Of course _he's_ smiling…he didn't accidentally dye his hair green." John said jokingly. Sherlock gave him a stern glare. John coughed and began to read the information on the back of the box. "…It's okay, Sherlock, it isn't permanent. It'll wash it if you shampoo it. Vigorously."

Sherlock snorted. "Boring!" He rolled his eyebrows. "I don't have time for that, either!"

John raised his eyebrows. "Would you rather walk around with green hair?"

"No."

"Well, then…"

* * *

"Ow! You got soap in my eyes!"

John sighed. "Sherlock. My hands aren't even near your face."

"Where are they then? Because they're either on my face or on my…"

"Don't even _think_ about finishing that sentence. This is awkward enough."

Sherlock snorted. "Really, John. I was going to say my scalp."

John rolled his eyes. "Just shut up and let me wash your hair. Or did you change your mind?"

Sherlock sunk deeper into the water, pouting.

John finished soaping up the detective's messy curls and pushed his head down into the water. "Hold still while I rinse out the shampoo, or you really will have soap in your eyes."

Sherlock closed his eyes as John's fingers worked over his scalp. He rinsed out the soap carefully, turning his hair back to its regular dark brown shade.

"Okay, you're done." John said. "Congratulations; you no longer look like you fell in a vat of pea soup."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He pulled himself upright and began to stand. John turned away, giving him some privacy, and handed him a fluffy towel.

Sherlock yanked it out of John's hand and wrapped it around himself. "Thank you," he said stiffly. "I'm decent, you can turn around now."

John turned back towards him…and felt his breath catch in his throat.

Sherlock was gorgeous.

He had always figured that Sherlock would be beautiful shirtless; all that pale skin and lean muscle. But he never thought he would feel like _this_ about it.

Sherlock looked at him, unreadable. "John. You can close your mouth now."

John shut his mouth with a snap. "…sorry," he said lamely, very aware that it was a bit not good to be ogling your male flatmate's bare chest.

"No…it's…it's okay." Sherlock said. He looked a bit…lost. John wasn't used to that; Sherlock _always_ knew what he was doing and saying.

"Well…I guess I should just, um…go…" John said, gesturing carelessly towards the door.

"Yes…NO!" Sherlock said, then stopped and looked very confused.

"…What was that?" John asked carefully.

"Uh…" Sherlock looked around wildly.

John stepped forward, trying not to show how nervous he was. "…Would you like me to stay?"

Sherlock looked down at the shorter man. His eyes seemed to glow, a beautiful iridescent bluish-green. "Yes. I think that would be…acceptable."

John leaned in closer than ever, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Afterwards, they lay together in Sherlock's bed, tangled up in each other's arms. Sherlock rested his cheek against John's forehead. "John?"

"What, Sherlock?"

"I…I feel very…happy…towards you."

"I love you too, you daft git."

Comfortable silence filled the room.

"You're still scrubbing the sink, though."


	2. John 'Three-Continents' Watson

_A/N; This little thing was based off of Fever by Adam Lambert…Seriously, if you love Johnlock as much as I do, go listen to it. It describes them perfectly._

_For those of you who read every single thing I write (I hope there's at least one or two :P) this and the following oneshot are both taken from my discontinued songfic (discontinued because of the lack of response) and edited just a bit._

_Thank you once again for all the reviews, favorites, follows, and everything. You guys really keep me going :D_

_Oh, and happy belated birthday to Martin Freeman! This oneshot is dedicated to him, mostly because of the title…;)_

_Ta!_

_-Anonymoustache_

* * *

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"What does one do at a pub?"

John sighed. "Sherlock. Even _you_ aren't that socially oblivious."

Silence.

John sighed again. "Dance. Order a lot of alcohol. Get drunk. Find a good shag."

Sherlock poked his head out of his room with a confused look on his face. "What does one _wear_ to a pub?"

"Clothes would be a brilliant idea."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, idiotic as you seem to think I am sometimes, I am well aware that public nudity is frowned upon."

John threw up his hands in frustration. "Jesus, Sherlock, I don't know! Just wear something besides those stupid suits you always wear, okay?"

Silence.

Then, "My suits aren't stupid."

John grabbed a book from a table nearby and opened it. "Just hurry up, okay?"

Sherlock's head disappeared back into his room. "Why am I going again, John?"

John tried his best to keep his calm. "Because you promised me that for one night you would actually go out and have some good, normal fun that doesn't involve body parts."

John heard Sherlock pause in his dressing. "When did I promise that?"

John smirked. "I believe you were a bit 'tied up' at the moment," he muttered.

He heard Sherlock scoff. "Well, that hardly counts, does it? After all, one can't just tie one's flatmate to their bed and refuse to release them until they promise to refrain from keeping body parts in the ice box, among other things!"

John interrupted. "Very true. However, I think we reached a satisfying conclusion, don't you?"

Silence.

John smirked and went back to his reading.

Half an hour later they were on their way to the pub.

Sherlock had surprised John. The army doctor had expected him to just ignore what John had told him and wear something formal like he always did. However, Sherlock had strutted out of his room looking like he had just walked out of a fashion catalog. Dark denim trousers (_God_, but those jeans were tight, John thought to himself), white cotton v-neck tee, and a leather jacket that hugged the lithe man in all the right places. He had John's dog tags on a chain around his neck, and on his feet John had been surprised to see a pair of actual black and white converse, practically new.

John himself was wearing a fairly typical outfit. Seeing as they were going to a pub, which would most likely get very warm very quickly, he had forgone the bulky jumpers for a thin black sweater over a red-checked shirt. He had a pair of dark blue jeans and his everyday brown shoes.

Finally, the cab arrived at the small, downtown pub that Sherlock had finally agreed was the only place he would go.

The consulting detective practically leapt out of the car before John, who couldn't figure out why the man was so eager until he saw him walking.

_Oh, God_, thought John.

_This man will be the undoing of me._

John had never been one to leer at anyone's arse, female barista or not. But when Sherlock walked towards that door, all long legs and gently swinging hips and just a bit of pale alabaster skin showing above the waistband of the trousers where his tight tee-shirt had somehow been pulled up into the jacket by the motion of the cab…he knew exactly why Sherlock had been so lenient about going tonight.

It was fairly obvious that Sherlock's main goal this evening was to get laid.

By John.

In a pub.

John stepped out of the cab, eyes narrowing. So that was how he wanted to play it, was it?

Well, fine.

If Sherlock 'The Virgin' Holmes wanted to play sexual tic tac toe with John 'Three Continents' Watson, he would certainly not disappoint him.

Ten minutes later, John found himself sitting at the bar beside Sherlock (who was way too close to John…not that he minded), drinking a beer. Sherlock had already had two shots of vodka, which had interested John to no end. He had never seen Sherlock drink before tonight.

"So, John…" Sherlock looked around, unimpressed. "Is this really all you do at a pub? Drink alcohol and stare at passing waitress's arses?"

John raised his eyebrow in a certain manner that had worked on countless woman (not to mention a few very strange men). "Really, Sherlock? You're staring at their arses?"

Sherlock leaned in close to John. "Why not? You were staring at mine." He grinned at John's awkward look. "Next drink's on me, John."

John sighed and cursed under his breath as Sherlock took another shot. For being called a virgin by the most powerful dominatrix in the world, Sherlock certainly knew what he was doing when it came to this sort of thing.

John ordered a scotch on the rocks and turned to Sherlock. "So…Sherlock," he said in his best seductive voice. "Girls are your thing, then?"

Sherlock laughed uneasily. "No, not really. As you're aware, John, dating in general is not really my area." Sherlock looked casually at his empty shot glass. "However, if the right person were to…_convince_ me…I'm sure I could make an…_exception_."

Now why did those words sound so dirty coming out of Sherlock's mouth?

_No, John, don't think about Sherlock's mouth, that isn't going to help_.

Sherlock was definitely winning their unofficial game.

Sherlock threw back another shot (was that his fourth…or his fifth? John couldn't keep track) and grabbed John's hand off the table waaaay too casually for all that it implied. "Come on, John; let's dance."

John followed Sherlock down onto the floor. "I thought you hated dancing," he hissed.

Sherlock turned and began to swing his hips to the music. "Like I said, I make exceptions for certain…interested parties."

Damn. Sherlock really knew what he was doing.

John danced alongside his friend. It had been a while since he had been dancing, and he was, admittedly, a bit rusty. Nowhere near as good as Sherlock, who looked like he had come straight off one of those dancing competitions on the telly.

Sherlock looked different tonight, John realized. What was it? Clothes, obviously…but there was something else. His eyes traveled up and down the man's long, lean body, and then came to rest on Sherlock's face. Something about his facial appearance…

Just then Sherlock's eyes closed momentarily and it clicked in John's brain.

"Sherlock?" he hissed. "Are you wearing _eyeliner_?"

Sherlock swung in closer to John and began to grind against his hip. "Why? Does it _distract_ you, Dr. Watson?"

John groaned. Oh, Jesus. Sherlock was_ too_ good at this. He was beginning to feel like he had lost his touch.

Sherlock's glittering eyelids (_gold_ eyeliner, John realized) tickled John's cheek gently. "Well? What do you think?"

John sucked in a breath. "I think…I think we should probably take this back to Baker Street now." he said throatily.

Sherlock practically _purred_. "My thoughts exactly."

Half an hour later, the two of them were climbing the stairs to Baker Street while simultaneously snogging the life out of each other.

Sherlock broke off for a moment, gasping for breath. "J-John…"

John smirked and pulled Sherlock towards his bedroom. Sherlock may be a quick study in the seduction part of things, but the next part?

The next part was the reason they called him John 'Three-Continents' Watson.


	3. Better Off Without You

_A/N; Again, taken from the discontinued songfic (based off of Rumour Has It by Adele). So, if it looks familiar, I challenge you to try and find the differences…virtual cookies to those of you who do!_

_Ta!_

_-Anonymoustache_

* * *

Sherlock _hated_ Mary.

Okay, so that wasn't really surprising news. Sherlock hated all of John's girlfriends with a passion. They took away John's valuable time that should belong to Sherlock.

But Mary wasn't just John's girlfriend, not anymore.

She was his wife.

They had been married for about three months now. Three long, long months, during which John had not once come to visit Sherlock.

However, Sherlock had heard that Lestrade had met John down at the pub the other day, completely smashed. The inspector repeated John's story for Sherlock; John had mentioned something to Mary about wanting to go visit Sherlock. Mary had not been happy with that and had accused him of cheating on her. She had kicked him out of the house for the night until he 'came to his senses'. Lestrade had taken John back to his flat to sleep it off.

John had rambled the whole night, apparently. Mostly about missing Sherlock, Lestrade had revealed with a pointed cough. The next day, he had gone back home after a hurried apology for any inconvenience, and Lestrade hadn't heard from him since.

He had gone back to Mary, even though she had kicked him out. Sherlock didn't understand it at all.

Mary had it all, that much was true. Money, a good background, and it didn't hurt that she was young and beautiful. But she was a stranger. Sherlock and John had history; didn't he remember?

Sherlock sighed. He missed John, he really did. But something inside him, a little niggling voice, told him he was better off without the man.

_He used you, Sherlock. For rent, for fame, for money, for everything. And then he picks up with the first available female he finds and forgets you entirely._

_You're better off without him._

* * *

**Two Months Later**

Sherlock heard footsteps coming up the stairs. They sounded familiar, yet…yet he couldn't place them. They sounded…strange, actually. It was like he was hearing a song he hadn't heard in ages, and he couldn't quite remember the name of it.

And then John appeared in the doorway and Sherlock thought his world had exploded.

He hadn't seen John in five months. Five long, cold months, in which Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson practically had to tie him to a chair to prevent him from slipping back into old habits. Five months of agony. Five months in which Sherlock had actually contemplated killing himself just because he was absolutely, utterly bored.

He had heard little tidbits here and there about John and Mary. That John wasn't happy in his marriage. That he didn't like Mary's possessiveness. That he was on the verge of leaving her.

John was just as surprised by Sherlock as the consulting detective had been by him.

Five months had not been good to Sherlock, that much John could see. The consulting detective was thinner than ever, his skin as pale white as the snow that was falling outside. John could count every one of his ribs through his rumpled purple shirt. His belt had been cinched as far as it could go, and even then when Sherlock stood up upon seeing John standing in the doorway he held them up ever so slightly with the tips of his fingers.

"Sherlock…" John smiled a winning smile. "I'm back!" he said, trying for a weak attempt at humor.

Sherlock stood stock still, no expression crossing his face.

John's confidence wavered. "Um…you…you were right, Sherlock. You were always right, and I…I was so wrong. I'm sorry. I wish I could go back and just…change it all."

He stepped closer to Sherlock, grabbing the consulting detective's hands in his own. "I…I love you, Sherlock," he said, taking a deep breath, "Will you forgive me?"

Sherlock's heart almost stopped. What should he do?

_Ignore him, obviously. __**He**__ left __**you**__, remember? You have no cause to give him a second chance,_ said his ever-logical brain. _Besides, you don't need friends, remember?_

_But he's John!_ said his heart. _Could you really abandon him just like that, after all this time?_

_Yes. Yes you could._

_Do it._

_Do it._

_He deserves it. He deserves to feel the heartbreak that you felt all those months._

_Do it._

"No…" Sherlock muttered.

John's smile slipped off his face. "What?"

Sherlock stood up straighter. "John…no. I told you about her, but no, you went ahead and married her, which is your own fault, and I waited for _months_ just to catch even a little glimpse of you…so, no. Just no."

He pushed past John, who was still standing in the middle of the doorway. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date tonight."

John's eyebrows darted up towards his hairline. "You? Have a date?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, that _is_ what I said. With a certain Victor Trevor. He's an old friend of mine from uni…and much more interesting than _you_, I should say."

And with that, Sherlock was out the door.

John ran to the window and watched as a cab pulled up to the walkway and a man stepped out. He had long, greasy-looking black hair and was wearing dark skinny jeans and a draped cashmere sweater, looking like something out of a fashion catalog. Sherlock embraced him and, darting a look towards the window, snogged him hard.

The consulting detective knew John was watching.

John watched intently as the two of them slid into the cab, still shoving their tongues into each other's mouths, and slammed the door shut. The cab pulled away, and as it did, John shot a text off to Mycroft.

_He won't listen to me anymore. Watch him. I don't like this Victor character. -JW_

A few moments later his phone buzzed with a reply.

_Has it ever occurred to you that he felt the same way about Mary? Food for thought, John. -MH_

John sunk down onto the sofa. No, it hadn't, but it made sense.

However, John knew one thing. He certainly wasn't going to do what Sherlock did in reaction. He wasn't going to give the consulting detective an 'I told you so' and leave him for someone else. No, he was going to be there for him when it happened.

When Victor cast Sherlock off, like Mary had done to John, John would be there to catch Sherlock.

He wouldn't let Sherlock shatter. He wouldn't let him fall.


End file.
